I make my way through crowds to find the sea;
The tide’s internal clock tells it to turn.
A man stands like a withered flat-capped tree,
My grandad in a suit, his face set stern
Against the big idea that fills the beach:
The less you wear, the more you’re having fun.
His ghost has come from somewhere out of reach
And stands there sweating in the mid-day sun.
That generation liked to button up,
Got off the train then walked down to the sands,
Poured strong tea from a flask into a cup
That seemed so tiny in their massive hands.
Then, gazing at the sky, they liked to sit
And contemplate one less day down the pit.